Take what you need
by champagne-and-razor-blades
Summary: AU, Beckett and Esposito before we knew them. Because I think the two of them definitely have an 'I've-seen-you-naked' vibe. "She really, really needed some pumping endorphins right now."


Because someone pointed out to me that there's a bit of a something between them, and I have to agree - not really romantic, but a bit of an 'I've seen you naked' vibe. In my headcanon, there's a bit of a backstory with them.

* * *

It was a muggy summer night and they had just admitted defeat in a case that refused to let anyone solve it. She _knew _he was guilty, knew it with every last indignant fibre of her being, but every last one of his alibis was skin-tight.

Normally, she'd go home, do something to distract herself, but she was still wound up so impossibly tight that when the new detective invited her out for a drink, she didn't decline.

In fact, she accepted.

Javier Esposito. Hispanic, some sort of military background, although she was a bit shaky about the details. Younger than she was by a few years, she guessed.

He wasn't really anything out of the ordinary – good looking, she'd give him that – but then again, he was easy to get along with, when she tried. She put up with him, he put up with her, and that was where it ended.

Which made it kind of strange that after she-didn't-quite-know-how-many drinks, she found herself flirting with him over the frosted rim of her glass. The bar was hot, her black button up shirt sticking to her skin, and yet she found goosebumps crawling up the flesh of her thighs.

Beckett was buzzed, buzzed from the potent combination of alcohol and guilt, buzzed from the sleepless nights and tears that refused to fall. It thrummed through her, vibrated in her veins—

She plucked a melting icecube between two fingers, drew it between her lips. Sucked.

This was so not going to work out, not at all, but there was enough alcohol in her system for it to take the blame, and, fuck, she really needed some pumping endorphins right now.

Espo was still watching the drip of ice water onto her bottom lip.

She stood up, acutely aware of the brush of her pants against her thighs, and stalked towards him, her heels clicked mutedly against the floor. He backed away just a little, but not in a way that suggested he wasn't interested. He was letting her crowd him.

Beckett wants to say something coy, something clever, but what comes out is, "Forget with me."

It's deeper than she wants, conveys more feeling, but it's true. She wants to erase that sorry bastard's face from where it's burned on her retinas, wants to focus on something other than the cold curdle of failure in her gut.

He leans in to her, warm liquor on his breath.

She doesn't expect him to say anything – he's not the most talkative person, and within reason, she likes that about him – and he doesn't, just nods his consent, hands sliding to her hips.

Beckett grabs him by the elbow (holding his hand seems to personal) and drags him behind her, through the seething crowd of bodies to the bathroom.

If anyone notices her shoving him inside, then following suit and shutting the door, they don't care.

It's fast from then.

She backs herself up against the wall, pulls him towards her, and he obliges, pressed her against the cool porcelain with his torso, his hips.

Esposito's mouth is hot and wet against his, too much teeth and tongue and biting and sucking to really be considered a kiss.

He pushes, she gives, hoisting herself up and wrapping her legs around his waist.

They don't really waste time with foreplay, because foreplay is for people in a committed relationship who are making love, and they are not either of those things.

They are two partially drunk homicide detectives fucking against the wall in a bar restroom.

His fingers are popping the buttons of her pants open while hers fumble with his belt, quick and mechanical, as if it's routine, which it really, really is not.

Then his hand slides down the front of her underwear and her mind is wiped blissfully blank.

Beckett's wet, she knows she is, and now he does too, with his two thick fingers swiping rough circles over her clit. Esposito groans into the skin of her neck, his tongue laving over tendons.

She pulls him out of his pants, swipes a thumb over his head.

His hips buck.

Her head is a rush of heady sensations and rum.

Their hips grind together once, slowly, and she considers lifting herself up just a little more, letting him fill her, but although what they're doing is stupid, she's not that idiotic, and neither of them have protection, so she just presses her clit against the hot hard length of him and hopes it's enough.

It is.

They find a rhythm quickly, easily, because he knows that she knows that he knows she likes to lead.

It's almost painful, but she aches for it.

He's moaning against her, a string of swear words, and she doesn't really like being loud so she clamps her teeth down on his shoulder to muffle the sounds that collect at the back of her throat.

Beckett can taste the tang of sweat through the fabric.

His hips are moving faster, circles, almost there, and then he hits _the _spot and oh god oh fuck she's clawing at his back and there are going to be bite marks on his shoulder for at least a week, he's coming in hot spurts on her stomach and she is _gone._

Once she's finished she slides down from the wall, makes her way towards the sink. He does up his pants, then looks at her with a question written on his face.

"Go," she mutters, clearing her throat. "I need to clean up."

He ducks his head, runs his fingers through his hair. Nods.

"See you tomorrow?" he says it more softly that what she's used to.

"Don't worry, Esposito, it never happened." And with that, he slips out the door, and she wipes herself down, re-arranges her shirt and hair.

* * *

They never talk about it. Eventually, she stops thinking about it every time she sees him.


End file.
